


Things that Make it Warm

by god_commissioned_me



Series: Library Magic [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Author is Trans Disabled and Autistic, Autistic Martin Blackwood, Cuddling, Disabled Jon Sims, Established Relationship, Fluff, Librarian Jon Sims, Library AU, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, The Inherent Intimacy of Warming your Boyfriend's Cold Cold Hands, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vague Plot Mostly Snuggles and Domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25907548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_commissioned_me/pseuds/god_commissioned_me
Summary: Martin loves autumn. He loves the cool breezes and the rainy evenings. He loves the drifting, colorful leaves, and he makes a point to find a few perfect ones to press in his old journal each year. He loves pulling out his soft jumpers, burying himself in cozy layers. But mostly, he’s learning, he loves the way the chill of autumn lends an extra ease of domesticity to his relationship with Jon. He loves the way Jon pads around in absurdly thick socks, the way he looks with bits of leaves stuck in his messy hair, the way he snuggles drowsily into him, murmuring don’t gos and you’re warms. It makes something in Martin’s chest swell and tremble. He loves Jon, and he loves autumn.Loosely, 5 times Martin helps Jon stay warm + 1 time Jon helps Martin stay warm throughout their first autumn and winter together.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Library Magic [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792294
Comments: 131
Kudos: 444





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> set roughly 2-3 months after the events of Drawn to that Sort of Library Magic. it is not necessary to read that work before this one!  
> author is trans, disabled, and autistic and projects with abandon  
> i keep bringing up my projection onto jon but i did not expect that to include me being offered a new position at my job which involves a huge increase in responsibilities *but* also in ability to contribute more toward my work in queer community organizing much like jon did at the end of library magic! wild how that happened. however, that means that my life is wildly busy at the moment and i may not be able to keep as regular an update schedule as i would like. thanks in advance for your patience!  
> title from the cavetown song by the same name bc i have no subtlety

Martin shivers cheerfully as the early November wind sends goosebumps up his arms. He’s a  _ little  _ disappointed that it rained while he was studying in the library since it means the leaves on the walkway aren’t crunchy enough to enjoy stepping on, but that doesn’t lower his mood as he unlocks his bicycle from the rack.

Very few things could bring him down from his soaring happiness. He’s just had a satisfying day of coursework, and one of his professors had left a long and complimentary comment at the end of the last analysis he’d turned in. He knows, objectively, that he has interesting things to say about the poetry he’s dedicated the next two years to studying, but there’s something thrilling about having that confirmed, about knowing that someone else has looked at something he cares about through his eyes and found his vision valuable.

It’s not something he’s used to, being valued, being understood. But it’s something he’s  _ growing _ used to, thanks to the friends he’s found at the Magnus Library and, most of all, Jon.

Jon, who had used an emoji in his good morning text today.

Jon, whom he’d traded smiles with across the library all afternoon.

Jon, who would be following him to his flat within an hour.

That’s the main reason he’s so buoyant as he mounts his bicycle and lets himself coast down the slight decline from the library to the main road. It’s a Tuesday, which means it’s his weekly night in with Jon in his own flat. Not to be confused, of course, with Friday date nights or Sunday nights at Jon’s or any of the days in between when one of them finds himself in the other’s space without quite having planned it.

But it’s Tuesday, and it’s special, and Martin has bought Scrabble, and Jon is going to be insufferable when he wins, and Martin is going to laugh and maybe kiss the top of his head, and they’ll smile breathlessly at each other in the flickering light of his living room, and Martin will feel even happier than he does right now in the deliciously cold air. 

Martin loves autumn. He loves the cool breezes and the rainy evenings. He loves the drifting, colorful leaves, and he makes a point to find a few perfect ones to press in his old journal each year. He loves pulling out his soft jumpers, burying himself in cozy layers. But mostly, he’s learning, he loves the way the chill of autumn lends an extra ease of domesticity to his relationship with Jon. He loves the way Jon pads around in absurdly thick socks, the way he looks with bits of leaves stuck in his messy hair, the way he snuggles drowsily into him, murmuring  _ don’t gos _ and  _ you’re warm _ s. It makes something in Martin’s chest swell and tremble. He loves Jon, and he loves autumn. 

He lets himself into his flat and drops his messenger bag by the shoe rack just inside the door before crossing the room to flick on his oven. Frozen pizza certainly isn’t the most romantic dinner, but it’s hot and affordable and has extra cheese like Jon secretly loves. 

While he waits for the oven to heat, Martin goes into his bedroom to change. There isn’t  _ much  _ of a point in changing from one jumper to another, especially after Jon has seen him all afternoon, but there’s something about the act that makes the evening feel special, like he’s dividing the day into  _ work-time  _ and  _ Jon-time  _ simply by swapping the blue jumper for a green one. 

It certainly doesn’t hurt that he knows this one is Jon’s favorite, or that he knows Jon likes rubbing his face against the thicker cords of yarn like a sleepy cat. Jon doesn’t necessarily need encouragement to initiate cuddling - Martin has been delighted to learn how tactile he is when he’s relaxed - but that’s never stopped Martin from laying the groundwork.

Martin manages to time things correctly so that Jon is knocking on his door just as he pulls the pizza from the oven. “It’s open,” he calls over his shoulder.

He hears the familiar sounds of Jon propping his cane in the corner by the entrance and slipping his shoes onto the rack a few seconds before he feels a small body bump into him from behind. 

“I missed you,” Jon says plaintively, stretching his arms around Martin’s back and stomach.

Martin is glad he’s already deposited the pizza on the countertop because he can’t stop himself from flapping excitedly. “You just saw me,” he says with wonder. He never gets used to this, to being wanted, being missed.

“And?” Jon’s voice is muffled against Martin’s back. His hands are moving, searching for something along Martin’s sides.

“How did you have time to -  _ whoa _ , Jon!” Martin jumps slightly when Jon’s hands slip under the hem of his jumper and brush against the soft curve of his belly. “Christ, your hands are freezing!”

“It’s  _ cold  _ out there,” Jon says. He manages to sound more petulant with every word.

“Hang on, let me help.” Martin turns to face him and takes his hands in his own. “I can blow on them,” he adds mischievously.

“Don’t tell me I have to put up with this from you too. It’s not  _ my  _ fault I have poor circulation. I can’t help it that I get cold easily. Why should I be targeted for - for something I can’t control?” Jon stares at his hands mournfully, but he tosses a smile up at Martin to assure him that he’s teasing before any worry can creep in. 

“Too?” Martin echoes. “Who else..?”

“Who  _ doesn’t _ ,” Jon says. “Tim, Sasha, Georgie… Nikola, especially. She’s a bully, you know. I don’t know why I put up with her.”

Martin knows that it’s because Jon is as fond of Nikola as she is of him, and that neither of them are quite sure how to show that outside of the theatrical banter constantly running between them, but he doesn’t call Jon out on it now. “I promise not to bully you for your cold hands, Jon.”

“Thank you,” Jon says solemnly.

Martin presses a gentle kiss into Jon’s fingertips. “Let me get you a nice mug of tea, hm? That’ll warm you right up.”

Jon reluctantly releases him and leans against the wall to watch as Martin sets a kettle on to boil and excavates Jon’s favorite mug from beneath the plates stacked haphazardly in the dish rack. Martin doesn’t tell him that he uses the mug every morning just because it makes him think of Jon. He also doesn’t tell him that he only keeps black tea because Jon likes it, or that the sugar cubes in the jar on his countertop are the same brand as the box he’d seen in Jon’s trash the first time he’d visited.

Jon doesn’t know how curated Martin’s tea making supplies are to his benefit, but that’s okay because  _ Martin  _ knows. It’s his secret, his special gift for Jon every Tuesday, one of the little ways he can take care of him without him noticing. . 

He’s always liked making tea, especially when it’s for someone else. There’s something soothing about the ritual; it’s an attainable way to care, to show love - to offer warmth. He presses the mug into Jon’s hands like a kiss and wonders if Jon feels it like one too.

Jon takes the mug and holds it without drinking. He smiles softly, tiredly. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Martin says, and he hopes Jon knows all the ways he means that.

Jon blinks slowly, looking from Martin down to the mug and then to the pizza, which is steaming faintly on the countertop. “Dinner?”

“Dinner!” Martin jolts, the pizza half-forgotten in his haze of caring, and begins the familiar steps of setting out plates, of cutting even slices.

They eat on the couch - Martin has apologized several times for not having a table, but Jon always brushes it off with a smile. He’s thought about buying one now that he doesn’t eat every meal alone; there’s room for one again since his mother’s medical equipment is gone, but with his university costs stacked on top of his usual bills, he’s not sure he can afford one yet. Besides, Jon isn’t shy about sitting as close as possible to him on the couch, and it’s been a long time since Martin has felt so  _ wanted _ . He doesn’t complain about eating side by side and neither does Jon.

After, Martin fetches Scrabble from his bedroom and drags his side table around to the front of the couch. Jon promptly throws his arms around Martin’s middle again once he’s sat back down.

A quick laugh spills out of Martin before he can stop himself. “Jon! You’ll see my letters.”

“We could play on a team,” Jon says into his jumper, voice huffy with his own laughter.

“Against who?” 

Jon groans dramatically and peels himself off of Martin again. He picks his mug up once more and peers into it as if he hasn’t already drunk most of the tea. 

“Would you like another?” Martin watches him and thinks he might explode from fondness. How could he ever have been content watching Jon from far away, living without these little moments of softness that Jon is so eager to let him see?

Jon nods wordlessly and smiles at him when he stands to take the mug back into the kitchen. There’s a hint of that same fondness in his own eyes and it makes Martin clutch the mug against his chest with one hand so he can shake the other quickly, grinning into the open cabinet before he pulls out the supplies for the second time.

Jon pushes his face into the steam rising from the mug when Martin returns and sighs happily. “I should pick up a travel mug sometime,” he says. “Maybe having tea on my way to and from work would keep my hands from getting so damn cold.”

“Smart,” Martin says with a nod. He finishes setting up the game and bounces slightly on the couch cushion. “I’ve never played like this,” he confesses, “only the online versions.”

“Why not?” Jon blinks up at him.

Martin shrugs. “Never had anyone to play with? My mum wasn’t much for games.”

“Oh.” Jon watches him consideringly for a moment before carefully setting his mug down beside the board and wrapping Martin in another hug. 

Martin buries his face in his hair briefly before poking his ribs gently. “Now come on, I want to find out what kind of words rattle around in that librarian brain.”

“I  _ told  _ you, one’s career does  _ not  _ indicate any - ”

“Yeah, yeah, just make a word.” Martin bumps his shoulder lightly and revels in the fact that he gets to do this, be this comfortable with another person, feel sure enough in his place with Jon that he can touch and tease and exist without hiding and apologizing for his every move. A couple of months ago the idea of having this would have made him cry. 

Sometimes it still does.

But tonight, the only tears are tears of laughter over the frankly ridiculous words Jon gets hung up on.

“Rumpus  _ is  _ a real word,” Martin insists between gasps.

“It sounds like a word my grandmother would use so she didn’t have to say  _ ass _ ,” Jon says, wrinkling his nose. 

“Oh my God - Jon, come on!  _ And now let the wild rumpus start! _ It’s - it’s iconic - ”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Jon!” Martin stares at him. “You know, ‘Where the Wild Things Are’? Jon, you’re a  _ librarian  _ \- ”

“Not that again!” Jon throws up his hands. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, look, look.” Martin pulls out his phone and types into google before triumphantly showing Jon the results. “It’s - it’s a ridiculously popular children’s book, Jon, it’s a famous quote.”

“I never was much for picture books,” Jon says, looking down at the screen. 

“Well, you see right here, rumpus. It’s a real word.”

“Fine, fine, I surrender.” Jon rolls his eyes and kisses Martin’s shoulder. “I’m still winning anyway.”

“I’m  _ aware _ .” Martin grins and flops against the back of the couch. “Go ahead then, your bloody turn. Rub it in a little more for good measure.”

“I think I will,” Jon says with a haughty sniff, but he tugs Martin down to place a second kiss on his cheek before turning his attention to the board again. “Ha! Sage. Like me. I’m very  _ sage _ .”

“Because - ”

“Because I’m a librarian.” Jon raises his eyebrows triumphantly at Martin. “A wise old librarian.”

“I was going to say because you’re useful in clearing out negative energy, but that’s fine too,” Martin says.

That pulls a sharp, delighted laugh from deep in Jon’s chest, and he shakes his head lovingly at Martin as he lifts his mug to his lips again. “Cheers to that.”

Martin has to fight down the urge to pull him in for another hug, but if he does that every time the desire strikes they’ll never finish the game.

But an hour later, when the pieces have all been packed away, he holds Jon to his heart’s content; and when Jon pushes his cold hands under his jumper again, Martin remembers how much he loves autumn and how deliriously glad he is to finally be as warm as he’s always wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the lovely comments on the first chapter !! i haven't been able to respond to them, but please know that i read and treasure each one <3

Between his years working in a grocery store bakery and his years taking care of his mum, Martin has become fairly efficient in a kitchen. He doesn’t particularly enjoy cooking on any given day but sometimes, for special occasions, he can work up a little excitement for the task. 

This is particularly true today for a couple of reasons.

Number one, he’s found a new recipe. It’s for coconut chicken soup, which he’s learned is a favorite of both his and Jon’s, and the comments on the blog post the recipe had been shared in were more than glowing. Trying a new recipe feels like an adventure if you look at it from the right angle, and Martin is quite ready for an adventure after his long week writing another paper on the Romantics for his online poetry course.

Number two, Jon is coming over tonight. Usually they spend Sundays at Jon and Georgie’s shared flat, but Jon has spent the weekend harried with last minute work preparing for one of his new community events at the library. It’s an OwnVoices book club, and Martin has spent many date nights listening to Jon think out loud about book choices and discussion questions and social media promotion posts. The club’s second meeting had taken place earlier in the day, and Martin had sat in the back of the room despite only making it halfway through the book and had watched Jon’s eyes shine when he realized attendance had doubled. He’d left the library shortly after, but Jon would be joining him in his flat any minute now and Martin fully intends to help him celebrate the club’s success. With soup. (And also many, many cuddles.)

He’s just adding another sprinkle of cayenne to the simmering pot when two quick knocks on the door announce Jon’s arrival. Martin carefully sets the spoon aside and hurries to let him in.

Jon crashes into him in a quick hug that knocks Martin out of breath - and knocks Jon’s cane against his shins, but he doesn’t complain. “Did you hear them?” he says before Martin can open his mouth. “They had  _ so much  _ to say! Gerry especially - well, mostly because he kept comparing his relationship with Tim and Sasha to the triad in the novel - I didn’t realize he was so sappy, did you?” He pauses to sniffle loudly, scrunching his nose in a way that makes Martin’s heart clench. “Ugh. I hate this weather. Oh! And Basira even brought up information about the author I didn’t know - thanks for telling her about it, by the way, she said you convinced her to give the book a try - and I got another seven names on the email list, so Gertrude will  _ see  _ I was right about this, and - ” He sniffs again, then perks up, looking toward the kitchen. “Oh, Christ, Martin, that smells good.” 

Martin laughs breathlessly and steps aside so Jon can stash his cane in the corner before he picks his way across the messy floor to the kitchen.

“Is this..?” Jon peers down into the pot.

“Coconut chicken,” Martin says, pride and nervousness mixing in his voice. “I found a recipe on that blog Sasha showed me… if it’s not any good we can always order in, but it seemed easy enough to follow.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely.” Jon turns to smile up at him and pulls him into another hug. 

Martin bends down slightly to press his forehead against the top of Jon’s head, but he’s accosted partway through the movement by Jon’s frigid hands tugging against the back of his neck. He yelps. “Jon, your hands!”

“They’ll get warm soon,” Jon protests. “ _ You’re  _ so warm.”

“You’re shivering,” Martin notes as Jon continues his attempts to press as close as physically possible to him.

“It’s cold out.” Jon demonstrates by giving another loud sniff. “See?”

“By normal standards or by Jon standards?” It hadn’t been  _ that  _ cold when Martin had ridden his bicycle home from the library, but maybe the temperature had dropped more than he realized with the setting sun.

“Both.” Jon doesn’t relinquish his grip, so Martin props his chin on top of Jon’s head and settles in for what is sure to be a very long embrace.

He isn’t complaining. Hugging Jon is one of his new favorite activities, and he still hasn’t managed to overcome the sense of wonder that blooms in his chest every time Jon shows how much he  _ wants  _ to be close to Martin. But Jon’s hands  _ are  _ very cold, and so is his nose where it’s pressed into the dip of Martin’s collar. 

“I, um, I think the soup is probably finished, if you want to eat now?”

Jon nods against him. “Yes.”

“But… you have to let go so I can get the bowls down.”

“No.”

Martin laughs softly. “Okay.”

Then, a minute later, “I’m hungry.”

Martin laughs again. “I do know how to fix that problem.”

“It’s warm?” Jon looks hopefully over at the steam rising from the pot.

“Of course it is, Jon. And it’s got plenty of pepper, so it’ll heat you right up. Maybe clear up your sinuses too.” Martin finally wiggles free of Jon’s clinging arms and hurries to ladle the soup into a pair of matching bowls while Jon takes out spoons and pours them each a glass of water.

They settle onto Martin’s worn couch, Jon pulling his legs up to make a dangerous looking tray out of his crossed ankles while Martin balances his bowl on his lap. “Won’t that hurt your knees?” Martin asks, nodding toward Jon’s bent legs.

Jon looks at his bowl stubbornly. “It doesn’t hurt now. It’s a good day.”

“Will it stay a good day if you sit like that?” Martin asks softly.

Jon is quiet for a moment. “I won’t for long,” he finally says.

Martin doesn’t argue with him. He can’t honestly say that he fully understands Jon’s fibromyalgia - his symptoms seem to fluctuate in severity and location almost daily. Some days he strides around like nothing in the world can hurt him, while other days he can barely cross a room even with his cane. Some mornings he can’t so much as hold a pen, but on others his hands are completely fine yet he can’t turn his head to one side. Martin knows it frustrates Jon. He knows how much it strains him to need help sometimes, to not be able to rely on his own body to accomplish his daily tasks. Martin helps where he can, but he’s painfully conscious of his tendencies to be overbearing, even though Jon insists he hasn’t been. Someone had called Martin nurturing once, when he was younger. He likes that; he wants to be nurturing; he wants to be someone who knows how to take care of others, how to help them find the environment that lets them succeed. But he doesn’t think he quite is. He thinks he might take control instead, step over boundaries and make people - make Jon - feel constricted.

So when Jon says he’s fine, Martin nods and drops the subject. But he still worries. And he tries to remember where his heating pad is, in case Jon needs it for his knees later. 

These thoughts are interrupted by Jon’s sudden exclamation. “Martin, this is  _ good _ .”

“Is it really?” Martin smiles hopefully and lifts his own spoon to his mouth. It certainly isn’t bad. It’s not quite up to the standard of their favorite takeout place on Jon’s side of town, but the attempt was valiant. 

“Just what I needed.” Jon hums softly as he takes another sip. 

The words heat Martin’s chest far quicker than the soup, and he ducks his head to hide the blush he feels creeping over his face. They’re the kind of words he knows he’ll treasure. Sure, Jon wasn’t talking about  _ Martin  _ just now, but still, the soup is something he made, something he created for Jon, and that’s close enough for him.

“Martin?”

“Yes?” Martin blinks.

“Thank you.” Jon lifts a hand to cup his chin. His fingertips are warm from holding his bowl, but when his wrist brushes Martin’s clavicle it’s still cold. His eyes don’t waver as they find Martin’s. “I know I’ve been - I’ve been busy, and distracted, and I’m sorry for that but - thank you for listening to me and - and for watching out for me, and… just thank you.”

Martin drops his eyes out of habit as he smiles. “You don’t have to apologize, Jon. I - I like hearing you talk, hearing about what’s important to you.”

Jon gives him a small, tired smile in return. “ _ You’re  _ important to me.”

“I know,” Martin says softly, shyly. He does know. It’s not always easy to remember, but Jon has shown him time and time again until the assurance is curled deep in his chest, always where he can find it when he looks for it. 

Jon rises from the couch and takes Martin’s empty bowl along with his own, rinsing them out in the kitchen and instructing Martin to stay put with mock sternness. He returns quickly and plops down beside Martin, snuggling close with a contented sigh.

“Warmer now?” Martin runs his fingertips through Jon’s messy hair. He’s always surprised by how soft it is and more surprised that Jon leans into his hand every time. 

Jon hums affirmatively. “Thank you,” he says again, quiet and gentle. He catches Martin’s forearm between his hands and presses kisses into each patch of scattered freckles. 

This is something else that Martin knows, that Jon, beneath his stiff, grouchy exterior, behind the mask of reservation he wears around others, is secretly desperate for softness. He knows that this is how Jon shows and asks for love, through careful, tender touches, just as Martin does the same through acts of care. It’s been a surprise - a joy - to learn. He sinks further into the couch cushions, his free arm drawing Jon in closer with a happy sigh. 

Jon yawns and tries to hide it by turning his face toward Martin’s jumper. 

“Bed?” Martin asks.

“Not yet,” Jon answers, tracing a fingertip through the same freckles he’s just finished kissing. “It’s warm here.”

“It’s warm in bed too,” Martin points out, though not with any real intent to change Jon’s mind.

“Only because you’ll be there,” Jon says, “but you’re  _ here  _ now, so I think… I think I’ll just stay here.” He demonstrates by snuggling against Martin, squirming so that he’s lying more against Martin’s lap than his stomach.

And Martin, frankly, cannot argue with that logic.

He carries a sleeping Jon to bed an hour later, and Jon barely stirs to whisper thanks when Martin drapes the heating pad over his knees. When they wake up the next morning, they’re so intertwined that Martin can’t tell which of them is tucked into the other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the book club novel referenced is ‘the giddy death of the gays and the strange demise of straights’ by redfern jon barrett and i can’t recommend it enough. it features a polyamorous relationship, a trans/gnc pov character, explicitly nonsexual romance, queer spaces, and social justice work + is OwnVoices !! basically it’s everything i crave in fiction and, if you’re reading this au series, probably checks some sweet boxes for you too *finger guns*  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been thinking about [fabric rustles] for four days now and it gave me the boost of energy i needed to finally finish this chapter. there is no plot, but they love each other deeply and gently

It’s another Sunday evening, which means Martin is going to Jon’s flat for dinner and probably a quiet night watching that one home decor show Jon so inexplicably loves. 

“You mean to tell me you’ve watched five seasons of this and your bedroom still looks like  _ that _ ?” Georgie, Jon’s flatmate, had asked incredulously the first time she’d found them snuggled in front of the television in the main room of the flat.

“This is why I only watch on my laptop,” Jon had whined, but he’d grinned sheepishly and didn’t complain when Georgie sat on the floor to join them occasionally. 

Georgie wouldn’t be there tonight, Martin knows. She’s out of town visiting her girlfriend’s family, which means that Jon probably hasn’t eaten anything Martin would call a real meal in the three days since she’d left. That’s why he’d ordered in the large pasta sampler from that restaurant halfway between his and Jon’s flat - he wants to make sure there’s plenty leftover for Jon.

Picking up their dinner had been his excuse for leaving earlier than usual from the library that afternoon. Typically, he studies at his self-claimed desk until Daisy bullies Jon into leaving - usually at a reasonable time these days; he still blushes when he hears her say things like “you can’t keep your boyfriend waiting, you twat,” but it’s mostly because of the burst of surprised happiness he still gets when he thinks about Jon Sims being  _ his boyfriend _ \- but today, he’d slipped out an hour earlier than usual after promising to meet Jon at the normal time. This is partially because of the pasta that will be ready for pickup in half an hour and partially because of the thick, knitted blanket he is currently struggling to fit into his bag.

The blanket is meant to be a surprise for Jon. It’s one of many that make up the veritable nest on his bed. The past few times Jon has come over, he’s wrapped himself in it and dragged it around the flat until reluctantly returning it to Martin’s bed before he leaves. Martin has seen Jon’s bedroom and it is tragically lacking in blankets of any real warmth - a misfortune made all the worse by how cold Jon and Georgie’s flat always seems to be. It’s no wonder, really, that Jon walks around with frigid fingers and shivering shoulders all the time when he lives in an arctic zone like this. Hence, Martin’s gift of Jon’s favorite blanket.

If the idea of Jon waking up snuggled in something that reminds him of Martin makes warmth spread from Martin’s stomach through his limbs, well - that’s just an added bonus.

He finally manages to wrangle the blanket into his bag well enough that he can fasten the button closing the top flap and hurries back outside to his bicycle, which he rides to the restaurant with - he checks his watch - three minutes to spare. 

He faces another challenge fitting the takeaway bag in the small basket attached to his bicycle, but he makes do. And all such physics-related struggles are immediately worth the effort when Jon, who has apparently been watching out the window for him, flings open the door to his ground-level flat before Martin has stashed the key to his bike lock in a pocket and burrows his way into a hug.

“Hey - whoa, don’t knock over the pasta!” The words jolt past Martin’s lips like a surprised laugh. He winds the hand not hoisting the takeaway bag away from danger into Jon’s hair, pulling him closer for a brief moment.

“Is there - is there any ziti in there?” Jon eyes the bag.

“There’s bound to be. I think they fit an entire pasta aisle into this thing.” Martin shrugs, readjusting the strap of his messenger bag where Jon had knocked it a few inches down his arm. 

Jon leads the way back into his flat. When he kicks off his shoes, Martin sees that he’s wearing one of his many pairs of thick, woolen socks that sag and pool around his ankles in the way Martin finds distressingly endearing. 

The kettle on the stovetop is complaining loudly as they enter the kitchen. Jon hurries to deal with it while Martin deposits the food on the dining room table before stowing his bag by Jon’s couch in the other room.

“Green or jasmine?” Jon calls.

“Green, please,” Martin answers, coming back around the corner to see Jon stretched on tiptoes to reach the tea stash in the cabinets over the stove. He feels a little curl of happiness in his chest when Jon grabs the honey but no sugar, the thrill of being known even in this small way still as fresh as the first time Jon had remembered his preferences. He makes himself useful, grabbing down a pair of the pale blue plates and the cloth napkins Georgie insists on using to prevent waste.

Jon joins him at the table with a steaming mug in one hand and a wooden serving spoon in the other. He peers over Martin’s shoulder as he unpacks the takeaway bag. “That’s five pasta dishes, Martin. That’s too many.”

Martin shakes his head. “Now you’ll have dinners until Georgie gets home.”

“I can cook,” Jon says.

“Can and  _ do _ are two different things, Jon.” Martin smiles at him. 

Jon pushes his lips into a pout. “A bully. That’s what you are. You and Georgie both.” But he ducks to place a quick kiss and a murmured  _ thank you _ against Martin’s curls before he sits, and Martin recognizes his petulance for the teasing it is. 

Jon never teases without offering up affectionate reassurance before Martin can overthink his intentions. It’s something he loves about him, that he doesn’t give Martin a chance to spiral into anxiety or to pick apart his words for hidden meanings. Something Martin hadn’t asked for but was given all the same. Another flicker of warmth presses into the back of his throat, and he makes a soft, high noise to dispel it, shaking out his hands before he continues his task of spreading out their feast. 

Martin waits until after dinner is eaten and cleared away before he brings out his surprise.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs Jon, lightly pushing him down onto the couch.

Jon does no such thing. “Why? What are you doing?”

“It’s a secret! Just - for ten seconds,  _ please _ ?” 

Jon makes a great show of pouting and folding his arms over his narrow chest, but he does manage to close his eyes long enough for Martin to tug the heavy blanket out of his bag and reach around Jon to drape it over his shoulders. Jon’s hands jerk up to grab at the place where the corners meet beneath his clavicle.

“Wh - Martin, why is this here?”

“It’s for you.” Martin flushes, suddenly shy. “You, I know you like it, and it’s always so cold here, so I… well, I thought you might want it. To keep. Um.”

Jon’s fingers card through the thick, knitted cables of the blanket. “To keep?” he echoes. “As in, always?”

Martin nods and twists his hands in front of his stomach. “If you want. I - you’re always cold.”

For a moment, Jon opens his mouth without sound, and his eyes glint with wetness for a split-second. Finally he lets go of the blanket to catch Martin’s wrist and pull him down onto the couch. “You’re so good,” he says, curling up into Martin’s side. “You’re so kind to me.”

Martin hums quietly, too full of care for the man making a home of his arms to be silent or to speak. It’s okay, though. Jon understands. He always does.

Over the next few minutes, Jon manages to drag himself into Martin’s lap, the blanket cinched tight around him with one hand and the other hand holding Martin’s jumper. He isn’t shivering, and that makes Martin smile.

“So,” Martin says when he gets his words back. “Are we going to find out if yet another marriage reaches the brink of divorce over bathroom tiles?”

Jon snorts and drops a kiss against Martin’s jaw before squirming around to reach the television’s remote controller. “I’m betting on it being bedroom curtains this time.”

In a true twist of fate, this episode’s conflict is over a couch of all bloody things. There’s something comforting in it, though, in the quiet laughter Martin and Jon trade over the small concerns of someone else, safe here under a knitted blanket where nothing serious can reach them. 

In the dark, once the television has been turned off and whispers fade into puffs of breath against hair, Martin’s fingers find Jon’s. For once, they aren’t cold to the touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've made the executive decision that martin verbally stims around people he trusts bc *i* verbally stim around people i trust, and the cuteness potential for random hums, beeps, and squeaks is simply too great not to bestow upon this au. thank u for understanding :3


	4. Chapter 4

Martin has spent a lot of time daydreaming about what it’d be like to stroll through a park hand in hand with a partner. The reality exceeds expectations.

It’s magical, really. Jon’s head bumps against the side of his arm occasionally, little nudges of affection that thrill Martin even more than the crisp sounds of the leaves beneath their feet. His fingers squeeze around Martin’s own, a reassuring pressure through the fabric of his gloves. There’s a brisk wind playing in the strands of hair that have come loose from Jon’s braid, and Martin can feel the same wind raising cheerful pinkness to his own cheeks. Jon’s nose is similarly pink where it peeks above his thick scarf. There are lights twinkling around the lampposts, barely visible under the mid-afternoon sun, announcing the holiday season. Jon’s cane taps beautifully on the pavement. 

It feels like a scene from a postcard designed just for them. It’s perfect.

For the first two minutes, anyway. 

Martin’s breath huffs out in a cloud, startled, when Jon begins pushing their joined hands into the pocket of Martin’s coat.

“Jon?”

“Cold,” he says simply.

“It’s - Jon! Where are your gloves?” Martin stops, suddenly aware of Jon’s bare fingers wrapped around the handle of his cane.

Jon hunches his shoulders. “On my desk, probably.”

“On your desk,” Martin echoes. “Jon, how did you walk here without gloves?”

The park they’re currently cutting through is only a couple of blocks from the library - an easy stroll for Martin and his long legs, but a bit more difficult for Jon, with his short limbs and poor circulation and increasing dependence on his cane. Still, Jon had insisted it was all right, had promised that he was up to the walk to the park and the new bistro on its outskirts. Martin had been delighted. It’s taken months of convincing from Martin and Jon’s assistants, Tim and Sasha, to get Jon to agree to leaving the library for lunch every now and again. He’d been so surprised when Jon had finally suggested the outing himself that he’d taken Jon’s word for his stamina without the double and triple checking he might have felt compelled to do under other circumstances. 

“We’re almost there,” Jon says, pointing with his cane to the merry string of cafe lights that sway above the bistro’s entrance on the other side of the park’s tiny duck pond. 

“Take my gloves,” Martin says, reaching to pull them off his hands. 

“What? No, Martin, don’t be silly. We’re almost there,” Jon says again. “I’m fine! Just - come on, Martin.” He tugs at Martin’s pocket from the inside. 

Martin frowns, but complies. He’s still thinking about Jon’s poor, cold hands as they enter the bistro and are seated, though. He can barely concentrate on the menu for peering around its pages to watch Jon carefully flex and rub his fingers. 

He shouldn’t be surprised, probably. It’s not like Jon has historically excelled in self-care, though he has an adorable habit of announcing his coldness at every opportunity. How often does he remember his gloves? How often does he sit at the bus stop, waiting to be taken home in the sharp cold of night with shaking, stiffening hands?

It won’t do.

“I’m going to buy you another pair of gloves,” Martin announces after their food arrives.

Jon blinks up at him across the small table. “What? Why?”

“So you can keep a pair in your coat pockets,” Martin says. “Then maybe you won’t be caught without them again.”

Jon pauses, looking at him thoughtfully. “That’s… that’s kind of you, Martin, but it’s really unnecessary.”

“But your hands are always  _ freezing _ ,” Martin insists. “Like, proper frigid all the time. You’re always on about it - ”

“I have poor circulation - ”

“But you could make it a  _ little  _ better, right?”

Jon holds his gaze for a few seconds before he slumps, eyes dropping dejectedly to the food on his plate. 

Martin frowns, something twinging in his stomach in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. “Jon? What’s wrong?”

“I - Look, fine, all right, I know I could do better about the gloves, but it’s just… The gloves are hard to put on, sometimes. When my hands are… bad.”

Martin understands that by ‘bad’ he means stiff, cramped up with a flare or even the normal soreness that comes on an otherwise average day. He winces sympathetically, but Jon just shakes his head.

“It’s… easier to deal with the cold than with fighting to get gloves on and off.” He picks up his fork and fidgets with it.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says out of habit. 

Jon shakes his head again. “Don’t be. It can’t be helped. And - you always get my hands nice and warm again anyway.” He offers a small smile that Martin recognizes as the end of the conversation.

But Jon and his poor, cold hands hover on the outskirts of Martin’s mind for the rest of the day, even once he’s alone in his flat that night.

He stares at his laptop screen. He  _ should  _ be finding an analysis of John Keats’ “To Fanny” to use as a supporting source in his ongoing project, but… 

_ DIY hand warmers _ he types instead.

Five minutes later he’s digging through his sock drawer, tongue poked determinedly out of the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t get any research done tonight.

“So,” Martin says when he approaches Jon’s desk the next evening, “I have a surprise.” He can barely keep the excitement out of his voice, hopefulness peeking out from around his words quicker than he can swallow it. He feels a bit like he did before he and Jon were together, when he’d bring little desserts and treats from his bakery job to Jon when he visited the library.

“A… surprise,” Jon repeats. He pushes away from the desk slightly, chair scooting backward until he can look up into Martin’s face more easily. His face is expressionless. He still has a bit of the faraway look in his eyes that comes when he can’t quite turn his brain away from the day’s work, but he’s quickly coming into the present moment with a speed that would have made his assistants applaud a few months ago. 

Martin bounces on his toes a little. He can’t help it. He brings his arms out from around his back, unclasping his hands to show a matching pair of fuzzy, palm sized packets. “Here,” he says, dropping them into Jon’s hands.

Jon flinches a little. “They’re - hot.”

Martin nods happily. “I just heated them. In the break room microwave? See if they fit in your pockets.”

“Um… why?” Jon stares down at the objects in his cupped hands. 

“They’re hand warmers,” Martin explains. “So you can - you can hold them to - well, you know, keep your hands warm, obviously.” 

“These are - Martin, did these used to be your  _ socks _ ?”

Martin blushes slightly. He supposes it was too much to hope that the pastel, highland cow print would go unrecognized. “They, um, they were. But I washed them! And, you know, they were always a little small anyway - kept slipping down my heel in bed, remember? So. Repurposed. And they’re - they’re so soft, so they’ll be extra cozy.”

Jon brushes the pads of his thumbs over them. “You made these?”

“Um… yeah.”

“What’s inside?”

“Rice.”

“And you  _ microwaved _ them?”

Martin nods. “Yeah, for like - like 20 seconds, roughly. Nice and warm, right?”

Jon makes a quiet noise that isn’t an affirmation or an argument. He’s just staring down at the hand warmers, petting them slowly with his thumbs like he’s getting used to the sensation.

Martin squirms a little where he stands. Has he overstepped? He knows Jon gets self-conscious about his fibromyalgia, knows he often prefers stoic suffering over asking for help or even admitting that he might  _ need  _ help at all. He waits for another few heartbeats in silence, then, with a sinking feeling in his gut, opens his mouth to apologize.

“Martin,” Jon says before he can. His voice is tight. “ _ Thank you _ .”

Martin hesitates, lips still parted. Are those tears in Jon’s eyes? “You’re welcome - are you okay?”

Jon takes a deep breath and nods. He clutches the warmers against his chest in one hand and uses the other to brace himself against the desk as he stands. Then he leans in close to Martin for a quick, one armed hug that has Tim whistling from the circulation desk.

“It’s bad enough when the young folks do it, boss!” he calls.

Jon only rolls his eyes and steps back, looking a tiny bit embarrassed. He gives a watery smile up at Martin. “You made them. For me.”

“I did,” Martin says slowly.

“Because I can’t wear gloves.”

“That… yeah, that was my thought process, Jon.” 

Jon pulls his shoulders in, but in the shy way Martin has come to recognize and not in the grouchy, defensive way he might once have assumed it to be. Very carefully, he tucks the packets into the deep pockets of his thick cardigan. He keeps his hands there, buried in what Martin hopes is becoming a little haven of warmth. “Thank you,” he says again. And then, taking on a brave and resolute expression, he rises on his tiptoes to kiss Martin’s jawline.

There is another series of whistles from across the library, but Martin can barely hear them over the roaring of delight consuming his mind. 

\---

Jon hums to himself as he sits at the bus stop the next morning. Usually the wait is bitter and miserable, all hunching against the wind and rubbing his hands together to try to keep them from growing too stiff to use. Today, though, he keeps his hands securely in the pockets of his coat and squeezes the soft bundles of warmth hidden there. He feels a little bubble of joy rising in his throat every time he touches them, feels their heat and their softness and the short ridges of Martin’s slightly uneven but sturdy stitches across the tops. 

Martin made them for him.

Martin saw that he needed help, saw he needed an accommodation that Jon himself didn’t know how to ask for, and he sacrificed his favorite socks to make it happen.

Jon still feels just a little weepy about it.

_ Christ,  _ he’s in love.

He’s never felt so cared for, so seen and known and loved. It’s dazzlingly addictive, just like everything about Martin. 

He thinks about waking up in Martin’s blanket, about the soup he’d promised to make for them again this weekend, about the dozens of hugs and forehead kisses and gentle nuzzles against his hair, and he shudders from the warmth of it all.

Maybe, he thinks as his bus pulls in alongside the curb, just maybe, he could learn to appreciate the cold seasons if he gets to spend them learning to be loved like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's about time jon got some pov in this fic, huh?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear i meant for this fic to have a vague overarching plot, but instead all i have is the boys being absurdly sappy and in love. oops

Jon resigned himself to his smallness many years ago. Once it became apparent that his testosterone injections weren’t giving him another growth spurt, he’d come to terms with the fact that his options were to accept his height (five foot one, three in the boots he’d worn more frequently at the time) or to wallow in misery over something that was, in the grand scheme, low on his ranking of important physical features. Sure, it’s inconvenient at times, but it actually has some benefits.

Namely, that he is small enough to wear Martin’s jumpers like little dresses.

There is a certain coziness to it, being swallowed in thick yarn that pools over his hands and slips over his shoulders. The one he’s in the process of pulling over his head is a soft olive green with bits of cream and dove grey speckling it. He lifts his hands, hidden in the fabric, to watch the sleeves flop and sway cheerfully. 

“Warm enough?” Martin asks.

“Yes,” Jon says. “Oh, you can turn around now.”

Martin shifts from where he’d dutifully faced the wall while Jon changed out of his work clothes and smiles. “That’s - you look good in green.”

“You’ve said.” Jon smiles with just a touch of smugness, feeling his cheeks heat slightly. Then he shivers a little at the cold air that nips at his bare calves and clambers up onto Martin’s bed to pull one of his blankets into his lap. 

Martin sits on the edge of the mattress beside him and plays with the end of Jon’s braid quietly. Jon leans into him, closing his eyes blissfully. It feels so safe here, surrounded by things that are as soft and cozy as Martin himself. His shoulders relax, losing some of their tension, as the stress from a long day in the library and an unfortunately damp commute slip away in the comfort of Martin’s flat.

“Budge over,” Martin whispers after a moment, and Jon blinks drowsily, realizing he’d started to doze off propped against his boyfriend’s arm.

He makes an embarrassed, grumbly noise, but Martin shushes him as he scoots over. 

“Early bedtime, then?” Martin asks, sliding under the pile of blankets.

“Do you mind? I’m sorry if - if you had plans,” Jon starts.

“No, I’m kind of worn out myself,” Martin says as he rolls onto his side to face Jon. “That exam was pretty exhausting.”

Jon nods and wastes no time plastering himself against the soft curve of Martin’s stomach. There’s no need for pillows, he reasons, when you have a boyfriend as comfortable to sleep on as he has. Martin only chuckles and presses kisses into the top of head as he tugs the blankets higher around them. 

The insistent beeping of Martin’s alarm pulls Jon reluctantly from sleep in the wee hours of the morning. Martin shifts to grab his phone and shut it off, but Jon clings to him stubbornly. “No,” he mumbles.

Martin’s laugh is little more than a puff of warm air across Jon’s hair. “I have work,” he whispers, “and you have breakfast plans.”

“No,” Jon says again. He wedges a leg between Martin’s and readjusts his grip on his boyfriend’s pajama top. This is the worst part of spending the night at Martin’s midweek. It always ends far too soon, Martin’s early shift at the bakery taking him away from the warm bed and leaving Jon cruelly alone. 

Martin humors him for a few minutes longer, wrapping an arm around him and holding him close until his second alarm interrupts. Martin sighs. “I really do have to get up now.”

Jon manages to pack a great deal of petulance into his own answering sigh, but he does flop off of Martin’s chest and onto a pillow to let him get up. Martin leans over to kiss his cheek before shifting off the bed and disappearing to shower.

“Jon.” Martin’s voice is gentle, pulling him back to consciousness again some time later. Oh, he hadn’t meant to fall back to sleep. “I’m off. Don’t forget about Nikola, okay?”

Jon wrinkles his nose and closes his eyes once more. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Martin pauses, and Jon can  _ feel  _ his fondness radiating from across the room. “I’ll see you later, Jon.”

Jon kisses his own fingertips and extends them toward the doorway without opening his eyes. Martin laughs softly. A moment later, Jon hears the front door squeak open and shut.

Jon tries to gather the coziness around himself again for another burst of sleep, but without Martin in the flat it just isn’t the same. It’s better than the first time he’d been left here alone - he’d found himself dressing and slipping out the door mere minutes after Martin had gone, preferring to wait in a cafe before beginning his own work - but without Martin’s gentle presence, it’s just an old and unwelcoming flat. Martin is what makes it so warm and safe. 

He wonders, suddenly, if this is how Martin feels about Jon and the library, and he blushes, hiding his face in a blanket at the thought.

Eventually he has to leave the bed. He brushes his teeth, rebraids his hair, splashes water on his face. It’s  _ cold _ , and it sets him to shivering immediately. The chills only intensify as he changes into the spare trousers and button-down in his work bag. He looks longingly at the heavy, green jumper he’d discarded. 

Surely Martin wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it just this once… right?

Before Jon can convince himself otherwise, he’s burrowing back into the jumper’s warmth and letting himself out of Martin’s flat with the set of keys Martin had bestowed to him all those weeks ago. The sleeves are long enough that he can carry one of the hand warmers Martin had made him without it being visible, hand and fingers fully swallowed up in glorious, soft yarn. He feels a little giddy as he walks. His legs aren’t as sore as they sometimes are, despite the sharp cold, and he has plenty of time to make it to the cafe Nikola had instructed him to meet her at for what she calls his monthly review and what he calls (generously, he thinks) a friendly reconvening. The wind nips at his nose and plays with the tendrils of silvering hair that never quite make it into his braid. The hem of the jumper is a comforting drag against the tops of his knees. He’s happy.

Christ. He’s  _ happy _ .

He makes it to the cafe before Nikola for once and orders an extra sweet latte because he can. He’s tucked snugly in a corner booth, nose dipped into the steam rising from the beverage, when she arrives. Today’s eye makeup consists of what appears to be peppermints drawn in glossy liner. 

“Good morning,” Jon says with a smile.

“ _ What  _ are you wearing?” Nikola’s eyebrows don’t quite reach her cropped bangs, but it’s close.

“A jumper?” Jon lifts his own brows in response.

“Mhm. I can see that. That doesn’t belong to you though.” Her eyes glint wickedly like they do when she’s realized she’s found something new to torment him over. 

“Well, if you must know, it belongs to Martin. I’m borrowing it.” Jon sniffs.

“Borrowing,” she repeats. Her smile is growing wider. It’s almost frightening.

“What? It’s warm!” Jon flops back in the booth with an irritated huff. “And it smells nice.”

The addendum was a wretched mistake, which he realizes as soon as Nikola’s smile opens to show teeth. “That’s disgusting,” she says.

“Yes, well.” Jon picks up his mug with both hands, the jumper’s sleeves over his palms protecting his skin from the hot ceramic.

Nikola eyes him while he takes a long, pointed drink, then shrugs and reaches for her own mug. “Ah, well. I’m a proponent of stealing men’s jumpers too, though  _ I  _ do it so they’ll freeze in the unforgiving winter and I can rise victorious in the spring. Who am I to judge motivation when the result is the same?” But her eyes soften slightly, and she puts her mug down to reach across the table for Jon’s hand. “I’m happy for you, Jon.”

Jon blinks. “Yes. Well. Thank you?”

Nikola nods, satisfied, and then launches into a tale of her latest woeful experience in the dating field. Jon is content to listen and  _ not  _ be able to relate, thank you very much. She offers to drive him to the library, after, and gets out of her car to hug him for at least twenty seconds longer than is comfortable. 

“Keep taking care of yourself,” she says into his ear. “Or letting Martin take care of you - whichever it is that’s got you looking so good.”

“I think it’s both,” he says. “We’re taking care of each other  _ and  _ ourselves.”

“That’s gay.” She tugs playfully on his braid and slides back into her car.

“Nice jumper, boss,” Tim says when he arrives a few moments later, just as Jon is settling in behind his desk. He looks a little dejected, but Sasha is smirking over his shoulder.

Jon pauses and briefly weighs his options, but decides a few comments from his coworkers is worth the comfort of remaining in the jumper. “Thank you,” he says primly, and pushes the sleeves up just high enough to be able to type efficiently. 

He is  _ very  _ warm and comfortable for the rest of the morning. It’s like sitting in a soft cocoon that happens to smell like Martin’s lavender and clove body wash, which is the next best thing to sitting in Martin’s arms while he works.

It’s going to be difficult to give up the jumper.

When Martin appears after his shift in the midafternoon, he makes a beeline straight to Jon’s desk to say hello like he always does. Jon watches him approach with a fond smile.

“Wait - wait, wait, wait,” Martin says, stopping in his tracks. He laughs. “That’s  _ mine _ !”

“It is,” Jon says calmly. 

“It finally happened. You stole one of my jumpers.” 

“Tim owed me a fiver,” Sasha says, strolling past with a shelving cart. “ _ He  _ thought it’d be after the new year before it happened, but I knew your boyfriend was a weak, weak man.” 

“You knew this would happen?” Jon splutters.

Martin laughs again, his delight crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It was only a matter of time, Jon. You don’t exactly make a secret of how much you like wearing my jumpers. It was bound to happen eventually.”

Jon is torn between looking at him aghast and melting a little at the sensation of being known, of the adoration in Martin’s face being directed at him. “You - you don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” Martin comes round the desk and bends to kiss the top of his head. Jon wrinkles his nose and looks up at him from his chair, which Martin evidently takes as an invitation to place a second kiss on the tip of said nose. “You look adorable,” he says, “and you’re welcome to as many of my jumpers as you’d like. Just - leave one for me, maybe.” He smiles down at him and readjusts his grip on his messenger bag.

“I’m, ah, sure that can be arranged,” Jon says, feeling a bit helplessly in love. 

Martin laughs softly and reaches down to squeeze his hand quickly. “Right.”

“Right,” Jon says. He ducks his head to avoid combusting with fondness and scoots his chair closer to his desk again. He  _ does  _ have a job to do, after all.

And it’s so much nicer to work when he feels this cozy and warmed, completely, both inside and out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter left!  
> if anyone has ideas for one shots in this au please feel free to drop them to me in the comments or on tumblr [eyes] i love writing these library gays, and though i've got some multi-chapter ideas/outlines for the future, i'd like to work on some shorter fics in this verse too <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure why this chapter was so difficult to get out, but i scrapped it at least four times before deciding to just post it before i gave up and never finished the fic. enjoy another round of absurdly soft cuddling!  
> cw for alcohol references

Jon’s narrow fingers don’t quite close around Martin’s wrist, but that doesn’t stop him from trying as he tugs him along through the door of his flat, quick and insistent. It’s warmer inside, but not by much. He doesn’t have time to bemoan his flat’s constant frigid state, though, because as soon as the door is closed, Martin’s arm is around Jon’s waist, pulling him in close so he can bury his soft, snuffling giggles into Jon’s hair. Jon’s cane clatters to the floor. He barely spares a thought for it despite his swaying; he has Martin to cling to and Martin would never let him fall.

“You’re drunk,” Jon observes, smiling against the cable knit of Martin’s sweater.

“Am not,” Martin says. He pauses. “Well, no more’n you are.”

That’s fair, Jon decides. He stretches up on tiptoes, trying to rub his face against that particular spot between Martin’s shoulder and cheek, but he can’t quite manage it when Martin is standing upright. “Why’re you so tall?” he mutters.

The main room’s light flicks on suddenly. Jon squints and wiggles his way around in Martin’s arms, looking for the culprit. 

“I suddenly am filled with much more sympathy for my mother all those years ago,” Georgie says drily. Behind her, Melanie shuffles out of Georgie’s bedroom in a pair of pajama bottoms Jon vaguely remembers buying for Georgie years ago. “Where have you been? The party ended hours ago.”

Jon refuses to feel chastised. After all the times he’d spent mothering a drunk Georgie as a student, he thinks he’s earned this.

“Tim,” Martin offers by way of explanation, sounding only slightly more subdued than Jon.

It was true. Jon had been only one drink in, tidying the breakroom after most of the library staff had left their annual holiday party, when Tim had spun Sasha in a circle, draped himself fondly over Gerry’s shoulder, and begged Jon and Martin to join the three of them for what he called “a real celebration.” Usually Jon would have hesitated, worried about dragging down the mood when he inevitably couldn’t join the others on a dance floor somewhere, but Martin’s eyes had glinted with excitement over the invitation and Sasha had promised they’d find somewhere with plenty of seating. They’d ended up at a quiet pub, Jon cuddled happily into Martin’s side across from the other three all crammed into a bench together. And it had been  _ fun,  _ spending time away from work, hearing his friends’ plans for the holidays. No one so much as hinted that choosing a place that wouldn’t drain Jon’s energy or overwhelm Martin was any sort of inconvenience, and it was that effortless, smiling inclusion that made Jon feel safe enough to indulge in the series of drinks that have left his head buzzing pleasantly.

“... ‘s so nice,” Martin is saying, holding Jon close against himself. His voice has turned dreamy. “Do you think we’re friends, me and - and them?” he asks, suddenly trying to look down into Jon’s eyes despite Jon’s half-twisted position between his arms.

“Of course,” Jon says, reaching up to cup Martin’s cheek in his palm. His arm feels a bit like it’s floating. It’s nice.

“Oh God, and here I thought I’d escaped sappy drunks for the night,” Melanie says.

Georgie huffs out a soft laugh. “I think the two of you ought to go to bed.”

“Mm. Yes.” Jon nods. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to fall into his soft mattress and burrow under his favorite blanket, made warmer by the coziness of Martin’s presence alongside him.

Martin adjusts his grip on Jon, looping their arms together so he has a free hand in case he needs to support himself against the wall. They make it to Jon’s bedroom easily enough and close the door on Georgie’s continued laughter.

Martin deposits Jon on the bed before turning to the drawer where he’s left a few articles of his own clothing for nights when he stays over. He tosses his jumper over his shoulder and exchanges it for a hoodie and joggers. Jon, for his part, wastes no time shimmying out of his work clothes and into the jumper Martin discarded. With any luck, Martin will leave without it and he’ll be able to add it to his growing collection of what Georgie has lovingly begun to call ‘boyfriend couture.’ 

Once Martin has joined Jon under the blanket, Jon wiggles in close, throwing his arms around him and burying his face in his shirt. The buzzing in his mind has faded into a gentle fog that presses in around the corners of his vision, luring him toward sleep.

Quiet settles around them, broken only by the sound of their shivery breaths. Then, “Christ, why is your flat so  _ cold _ ?” from Martin, the words punctuated with a fond giggle.

“I don’t know,” Jon whines, but he can’t bite back a tired smile as he nuzzles impossibly closer and arches his back lightly against Martin’s arms. “That’s why you have to hold me. For warmth.”

“What, like a hot water bottle?” Martin squeezes him gently. 

“Mm, precisely,” Jon says around a yawn. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” Martin promises. Jon murmurs wordlessly, heavy eyelids slowly fluttering shut. Before he can fully succumb to sleep, though, Martin stirs beside him again. “Jon?”

Jon grunts back at him, barely conscious enough to process his name.

“Do you really think…” Martin trails off. Jon hopes he finishes his thought soon. He makes what he thinks is an encouraging hum. “Do you really think we’re friends? Tim and Sasha and Gerry and m-me?” His voice is hushed, wondering.

Jon opens his eyes again with some difficulty. “Yes, I do think so.”

“Cool,” Martin whispers.

Jon hums again and tightens his arm around Martin. He’s shivering slightly. Jon gropes for the blanket with one hand, pulling it further over Martin’s shoulders.

“I’ve never had friends before,” Martin says after another moment.

Jon knows. “But you do now,” he says, the alcohol in his system making it simple, clear. “Tim, Georgie, the others… they all like you. They care about you.” He presses a kiss against Martin’s chest and adds, “I care about you.”

Martin sniffs. “Cool,” he says again.

Is he - oh, is he crying? Jon squirms, alarm chasing away some of his drowsiness, until he can see Martin’s face a bit better. “Martin,” he says in dismay.

“No, I’m, it’s okay,” Martin says. He hiccups. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m really happy, you know?”

Oh. Jon touches their foreheads together. “Yeah?”

Martin nods. After a moment of silence, he says, “I just didn’t think I’d get this.”

“This..?” Jon prompts. 

“You. A future I want to live in. A… a  _ now  _ I want to live in.” Martin shifts, though he doesn’t break any point of contact with Jon. “I mean, so many things I used to hope for, before…” He trails off, and Jon guesses he’s thinking about his mother, about coming back to a flat that was never home and leaving his dreams behind. Jon is quiet, patient, until Martin rouses himself and continues reverently, “Well, I thought they would only ever be a fantasy. But now they’re… real.” His thumb brushes over Jon’s hip bone. “Maybe it’s not so silly to think I can have friends too.”

“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” Jon says. He hides his face against Martin’s shirt again. Tipsy as he is, collected thoughts feel beyond his reach, but his love for Martin is clearer than ever. “I think it’s just the start of all the nice things in store for you.”

Martin’s breath puffs into Jon’s hair - a laugh or a sob, Jon can’t be sure. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jon murmurs into his chest. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, sleep’s tempting fog curling close once more, the movement of Martin’s breathing soothing and safe in the darkness. The quiet settles back around them like an embrace.

When Jon opens his eyes next, there’s a flicker of sunlight coming in through his window. He doesn’t remember moving or falling asleep, but somehow in the night he’s managed to drape himself atop Martin, lying front down on his chest like he’d tried to cover as much of Martin’s body as he could reach with his own. Martin has one hand on the back of Jon’s head, fingers curled into his hair, and another spread between his shoulder blades. He’s snoring quietly. Jon’s cheeks ache with the force of the grin that spreads across his face, and he hides it in the soft dip of Martin’s clavicle. 

Martin shifts at the movement. “Don’t get up,” he mumbles. “Warm.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Jon closes his eyes again, still smiling as he sinks back into the comfortable haze of half-sleep. 

Later, they’ll stumble out of bed and make breakfast together, maybe go for a walk if Jon is up to it, or stop by the shops to enjoy the holiday displays. After dinner, Martin will work on a paper for his Romantics course, and he’ll look up to see Jon watching him with unfiltered adoration. He’ll flutter his hands when the joy becomes too much, and then Jon will kiss his fingertips, and they’ll fall into another embrace that turns to snuggling, and they will fill each other with enough warmth to chase away every chill of the past’s loneliness and bask in the glow of the radiant future they are building together. The cold won’t matter anymore.

It hasn’t mattered for some time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments on this fic - i reread them regularly <3 keep an eye out for a one shot in this series coming soon!

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theyrejustboys) !! i love getting messages and yelling about tma :')


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